


Drip

by SilverMirror12



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMirror12/pseuds/SilverMirror12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond gripped his chest, frowning. “You really don’t believe I’ve ripped apart a moving train with construction equipment?”</p><p> “Nor that you’ve ridden across rooftops on a motorbike, or killed a man with a newspaper.”</p><p> “Q, a relationship cannot survive without trust.”</p><p> “Then it’s a good thing we’re not in a relationship.”  A family of five spilled across a threshold, and Bond knew his time was up.  Q smiled at him, sweet and dry.  “The usual?” he asked again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drip

 The February wind dragged unforgiving talons against Bond’s back as he fought through it to the door, unwilling to let the chill out of his bones until after he clanged the glass shut behind him with a dull ring of the bell to announce his arrival.

 Brewed Delight (shortened to The Brew by many regulars) was squashed between a nail salon and regional bank.  The inside was decorated with dark cherry wood and warm colors, and propensity for paintings of ships on the wall.  They were a shop of convenience more than anything else due to the location, but more than one customer ended up returning for the darkly rich coffees The Brew seemed to excel in.  Bond, however, had a different incentive for returning every day (except on Thursdays) between two and ten p.m.

 A reason that was behind the counter now with a black cap keeping his curls off his forehead, and strong looking hands.  A reason that rolled his eyes at Bond’s usual flirtation towards anything with a pulse, pitched his voice to sound more posh than it probably was, and wouldn’t even tell Bond his full name.  Bond took to calling him Q.

 “Good afternoon, Mr. Bond,” Q greeted him, no different than he had the woman in line before.  “The usual?”

 “You’re so cold to me,” Bond sighed, and made a show of scanning the menu, even though he was a creature of habit and they both knew he was going to order his usual blend.  Q raised an unimpressed eyebrow, but there wasn’t anyone in line behind Bond so he was left standing. “Not even a, ‘how was your day’.  Dreadful hospitality.”

 “You never tell me about your day,” Q pointed out.  “Or you lie.  Either way, it’s a waste of time.”

 Bond gripped his chest, frowning. “You really don’t believe I’ve ripped apart a moving train with construction equipment?”

 “Nor that you’ve ridden across rooftops on a motorbike, or killed a man with a newspaper.”

 “Q, a relationship cannot survive without trust.”

 “Then it’s a good thing we’re not in a relationship.”  A family of five spilled across a threshold, and Bond knew his time was up.  Q smiled at him, sweet and dry.  “The usual?” he asked again.

 Bond smirked.  “Your Komodo Dragon blend, yes.  With a side of your number.”

 “It’s not Christmas, Mr. Bond.”

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened to you?” Q demanded in May, when Bond entered The Brew at half past eight with his arm in a sling and one eye only just regaining its ability to open.

 “Classified,” Bond replied.  He tried very hard not to smile at the worry Q hadn’t been able to double check in his earlier shock.  “Tell me I’m still pretty.”

 Q gathered himself, but his tone had less bite in it when he said, “You’re about as pretty as a bulldog on the best of days.  At least the bruising gives you some color.”

 “You should’ve gone into cosmetics.”  The counter was warm against Bond’s palms when he leaned against it, and Q began to make his coffee without asking for his order first.  He seemed distracted, and what the hell, Bond tried his luck.  “What _do_ you do, exactly?  You must still be in school.”

 “Maybe I’m not,” Q shot back, just to be contradictory.  “Maybe it’s my dream to work in a small scale coffee shop and be a pretentious hipster until I die.”

 For the first time that day, Bond smiled.  “No you’re not.  There’s too much hunger in your eyes.”

 Q looked up, frowning at the startling amount of sincerity in Bond’s face and tone.  This close, Bond could see that Q’s lips were chapped, and his eyes held the color of coffee with too much milk.  He still had spots, for Christ’s sake.

 Clearing his throat, Q returned to making Bond’s coffee, and Bond turned his attention to the ships on the walls.  Here was one in all its glory, sailing out to sea with the well wishes of a gaily dressed crowd on the dock.  There was one in the dying hours of sunset, being towed away for scrap without ceremony.  Once, just to be annoying, Q lectured Bond about the painting, throwing around phrases like ‘the inevitability of time’ and sounding like that pretentious hipster Bond knew he wasn’t.  Bond had retaliated by breaking six stirring straws and making Q get him a new one each time.

 “Engineering.”

 Only years of training kept Bond from jumping at the return of Q’s voice, and when he rolled his head back in Q’s direction it was a perfectly crafted piece of nonchalance.

 “Over at Imperial,” Q clarified.  “I’m studying electronic and information engineering, with a focus in coding.  It’s my third year.”

 “That explains your hands,” Bond murmured without thinking.

 Q frowned.  “I’m sorry?” His eyes automatically dropped to the hands in question, still curled around Bond’s coffee cup.

 “They’re strong.”  Reaching out, Bond wrapped his hand around the paper cup, and consequently, Q’s fingers.  They were warm and soft, with uneven knuckles from too much cracking and a tiny cut on the left middle finger.  Q’s nails were short, and Bond wondered how they would feel dragging down the skin of his back.  He wished Q’s wrist was in reach, so that Bond might see if Q’s pulse began to race in time with his own.

 “You look like someone who might bring England to her knees without ever changing out of your pajamas.”

 Q swallowed.  His eyes were darker now, a stronger brew that Bond felt he could never tire drinking from.  “Mr. Bond—“

 “James.  Please.”

 For a moment, it looked like Q might actually do it.  For a moment, Bond tugged his coffee towards him, and thought Q’s body might actually follow, and he would get to taste the lips of the boy who’d remained on his mind in one capacity or another for months.

 Just a moment.

 Then Q was pulling further away, and when he said, “Goodnight Mr. Bond,” any desire Bond had for coffee disintegrated in his mouth.  He paid anyway, bade Q goodnight, and decidedly did _not_ look back as he walked to his car.

 It was when Bond went to take a sip of his coffee did he see something scribbled in thick black marker under his name (which Q always wrote, even if Bond was his only customer).

  **7**

* * *

 

 In June, Bond discovered Q was afraid of flying, “Because it’s cramped and crowded and I don’t trust pilots.”  The real issue, of course, was a core fear of giving up control to anyone.  Bond knew the fear well.

 Q wrote a five on his coffee cup.

 

* * *

 

 “So then what do _you_ do, exactly?”

 “I told you.  Classified.”

 “You look like someone out of a spy movie.”

 “And you still don’t believe me about the newspaper.”

 “I don’t believe half the things you say.”

  **2**

* * *

 For every month after that, Q would pick a random day and write a single number on the side of Bond’s coffee cup, right under the o in his last name.  They bantered, Bond flirted, and Q continued to roll his eyes, but they began to be accompanied by small half smiles that Q could never hide fast enough.

 In December, Bond had seven digits written on a sticky note next to his coffeemaker.  The cold grabbed at his coat again, clung to his ankles in an effort to keep him outside, but The Brew was warm and so was Q’s smile.

 “Good afternoon, Mr. Bond.”

 “Merry Christmas, Q.”  A long, thin box, wrapped in golden paper with no ribbon, was placed on the counter between them.  Q blinked at it, even as he automatically began moving to fill a coffee order Bond never had to request anymore.

 “What’s that?”

 “On your final year at school and you don’t know what a present looks like?  Sometimes I really worry about you.”

 A tall man with the nametag Mallory and the word Manager underneath it walked behind Q, who automatically parroted, “We’re not allowed to accept gifts from customers. Store policy.”

 “Don’t make me break into your dormitory and leave it _there_.”

 “The scary thing is, I think you would.”  Q glanced around, and slipped the present under the counter.  He filled Bond’s coffee and handed it to him, immediately moving on to take the order of the half dozen people in line.  Bond settled into an empty table across from the counter, and turned the cup around in his hands.  Disappointment was sharp between his ribs when he saw no number written anywhere on its surface.  It was only Christmas Eve, but Bond had hoped…

 He watched Q fill orders for an hour, never once looking down where he’d hidden the present.  Eventually, another barista came to relieve Q for his break, and Bond straightened – only for Q to disappear into the backroom without a glance in his direction.  If he took the present with him, Bond didn’t see it.

 Q didn’t come out for fifteen minutes, and Bond was forced to concede that he needed to leave.  He tossed the empty coffee cup into the garbage with a little more force than was necessary, and moved across the parking lot like a gnarled tree, scarred and dressed in black and hunched against the laughing wind.

 He pulled up short to see his lithe gift box tucked under the window wiper of his Aston Martin.  After the initial wave of sputtering outrage that _someone would touch his car_ , he pulled the box – which was only the top – out from its prison.  What was scrawled on the underside in black marker made him grin against the cold.

_The pen is beautiful, but if it explodes I will not hesitate to sue you.  6_

* * *

 

 Back in his flat, with a scotch at his elbow and only the kitchen light on, Bond dialed the eight numbers Q gave him.  After two rings, Q answered.

 “Hello, James.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Komodo Dragon Blend is an actual coffee. http://www.starbucks.com/coffee/dark/komodo-dragon
> 
> 2\. Q attends Imperial College London.
> 
> 3\. British telephone numbers have eight digits, along with the three digit area code. Q and Bond would already know the area code for London, so Q only gave him the remaining numbers for his personal phone.
> 
> 4\. This is a 00Q prompt fic. If you'd like to request one, visit my Tumblr at craw101.tumblr.com. Requests are always open, but I fill them in the order I get them, so there may be a waiting list.


End file.
